Classic Poem

When the Festal Board, as the papers say,
Groans 'neath the weight of a lot to eat,
At breakfast, Frühstück or dejeuner ,
(As a bard tri-lingual I'm rather neat)
At breakfast, then, if I may repeat,
This is what gets me into a huff,
This is a query I cannot beat:
Why don't they ever have spoons enough?

I've broken my fast with the grave and gay,
With hoi polloi and with the elite;
I've been all over the U. S. A.
From Dorchester Crossing to kearney Street.
But aye when I sit in the morning seat
Comes to my notice the self-same bluff,
Plenty of food, but in this they cheat:
Why don't they ever have spoons enough?

Take it at breakfast, only to-day:
This was the layout, fresh and sweet:
Canteloupe, sweet as the new-mown hay;
Cereal — one of the brands of wheat;
Soft-boiled eggs (we've cut out the meat);
Coffee (a claro-manila-buff);
Napery, china, and glasses complete —
Why don't they ever have spoons enough?

L'ENVOI

Autocratesses, forgive my heat,
But isn't it time to change that stuff?
Small is the benison I entreat —
Why don't they ever have spoons enough?